Even the Darkness
by stisaac
Summary: "All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us." - Gandalf the Grey from J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. Wes and Travis. Travis and Wes. They didn't get along, but they went together. At first Travis was okay with fighting constantly with his partner. Then everything changed and all he could think about was how much time had been wasted.
1. Chapter 1

**Wes.**

It starts with a cold, or what Wes thinks is a cold. He isn't one to get sick very often, but when he does he makes it count. This cold in particular knocks him off his feet for over a week and he uses up three boxes of tissues in that space of time. His wastebasket overflows with the nasty tissues but he doesn't have enough strength or energy to pull himself out of bed to empty the thing. He spends days bundled underneath the weighty comforter, trying to pretend his head doesn't feel like it's about to explode. Travis calls at least once a day to ask how he's doing and if there's anything he needs, and while Wes appreciates his partner's concern, the ringing of his cell phone sends his migraine to new heights. Silencing the phone seems to solves the problem but the first time he's asleep when Travis calls, the other man winds up at his house to make sure he hasn't "died or something". And people call Wes the dramatic one.

When Day Nine passes and Wes manages to make himself a bowl of chicken noodle soup _and _eat it, so he figures he's on the mend. His appetite is returning and he can stand for longer than five minutes at a time without feeling lightheaded. He takes joy in the long awaited recovery stage and maybe rushes things a little bit. It was probably a bad idea to shower, then try to clean up around the house. He's tired enough after his shower but now that his head isn't blindingly aching, Wes can see clearly and he can't stand it. Tissues are everywhere and dust has gathered over every surface and he can practically see himself breathing the stuff in. Wes grimaces and starts with the wastebasket. He needs another plastic bag to fit the remaining stray tissues in and then he quickly heads outside to throw it all in the garbage can by the curb.

It's brighter outside than he remembers and he lifts a hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight, stumbling a little bit. He's getting more tired with each step and he hates himself for it. How pathetic. Right now, all he wants to do is go back inside and lay back down, but the house is _such a mess_ and it's driving him insane. How many germs are currently floating around his hotel room right now? Too many, Wes decides as he stubbornly gathers a few cleaning supplies together. He'll just dust for now and leave the rest for tomorrow when he's really starting to feel better.

But then one things becomes several and he's doing it again: The counting. _One, two, three _sprays of Lysol. _Four, five, six, seven_ swipes of the Windexed cloth for each window. Old habits die hard and as tired as Wes is, he slips so easily back into the old routine. Dr. Ryan has been working with him, trying to get him to break these habits but it's hard enough when he's in the right frame of mind. Now he's just focused on getting from one task to the next, but in a his stupid OCD way because it's just easier like that. He's too mentally exhausted to argue with himself. _One, two, three, _with the Lysol. _Four, five, six, seven, _with the Windex. Spray with his left hand, wipe with his right. Even amount of paper towels for each window and each wood surface. In his feverish mind, it makes sense and it keeps him going even though he knows deep down that it's not the best idea.

The ringing of his cell phone interrupts his counting and Wes scowls as he throws the paper towel away. He'll have to start over now. When he looks at his phone, he sees that it's 2:30 and that Travis is the one calling him, which makes sense. After he showed up uninvited the first time when Wes didn't answer, they agreed that he call at a certain time and if he didn't hear back by another certain time (3:00, because Travis refuses to wait any longer than half an hour), he'll stop by to make sure everything is okay. Wes doesn't mind that much. It's neat and organized. He appreciates having a sort of schedule that he can stick to even when he's bedridden for as many days as he has been.

"Travis."

"_Hey, man, you're alive!"_

_One, two, three. _"Yeah, I'm feeling better today." _Four, five, six, seven _"Almost human. I ate a little soup and now I'm straightening the place up a bit."

"_Wes,_" Travis' voice absolutely reeks with disapproval. "_I talked with you yesterday and you still sounded like you were at Death's door. What kind of cleaning are we talking about here?"_

Wes, unfortunately, feels a fit of coughing begin to build in his chest just at that moment and he tries to swallow it, gagging a little in the process. " 'm fine." He manages to clear his throat without making anything worse. "Travis, I had a huge pile of tissues next to my bed. They weren't even in the wastebasket because they wouldn't fit."

"_Uh-huh." _So much judgement. "_And what are you doing now?"_

"Um." Wes' hand stills over the roll of paper towels. His chest still feels too tight. He abandons his cleaning station for the time being to make himself a cup of tea. Kill two birds with one stone this way. "Making tea."

"_All right, well then as soon as your tea brews or whatever tea does, get back in bed."_ Travis is obnoxious when he's bossy like this. "_Seriously, man. At least for the sake of getting better quicker so we can get back out there."_

Travis is even more obnoxious when he has a point. Wes fills his teapot with water and sets it on the stove, turning the temperature to high. He turns and gazes around the apartment, unable to just turn a blind eye to the mess that's still there. He can't tell if it's related to his cold, or the fact that he's breathed in an unhealthy amount of cleaning agents, or a combination, but his nose is burning and his chest feels like it's trying to climb out of his throat.

"_So?" _Travis breaks his concentration. "_That sound like a plan?"_

If Wes opens his mouth right now, the only sound that's going to come out is the sound of him coughing up a lung. He squeezes his eyes shut, fingers rubbing at his temple as if he can somehow rub the coughing fit away. "Mhm," he hums because it's all he can muster. He takes a deep breath but it's a mistake and then he's doubled over, coughing so hard that it sends the room spinning. It hurts like hell and tears actually come to his eyes. Wes staggers over to the closest chair and sinks into it, feeling all of two feet tall right now. He _hates _everything.

"_Are you done?" _Travis asks. "_Because you just about blew out my ear drums."_

Wes finally catches his breath, nodding at first until he remembers that Travis can't see him. "I'm 'kay," he sputters. He needs that tea now more than ever. "Just a tickle in my throat." He appreciates Travis' pretend complain because the alternative is having him be concerned and Wes has decided that that's the most humiliating thing ever. "I'm getting my tea now."

"_Good." _There's a long pause and Wes wonders if Travis hung up or if the call was dropped. The hotel for all its high-end amenities and great rooms has really lousy cell reception. "_Can I bring you anything?"_

"No." Wes bites back a groan. He'd give anything to be back at the station with Travis pestering him about a million different things. "No thanks. I think I'm just going to call it a day." The tea kettle sings and he snatches it off the stove, pouring himself a mug of the boiling water.

"_Sure?"_

"Positive." Wes peruses his tea selection, disappointed to see that he's in dire need of a shopping trip. He chooses a bag of Earl Grey and dips it in his mug. _Once, twice. And stir. Three, four. . . _If he can't clean then he can at least have his tea just the way he likes it. "Thanks, Travis."

"_Okay." _Again Travis is quiet. Too quiet. Wes never thought he would long for Travis to keep talking, preferably if it didn't have anything to do with him being sick. "_Well, call if you change your mind." _

"Thanks," Wes says, the back of his neck heating up. He wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole, can Travis do that for him? "I'm gonna head back to bed for now though." He waits for Travis' reply, carefully stirring the tea around. _One, two-_

"_Feel better, man. We miss you around here."_

Wes hates sentiment. He's not used to it. Especially from Travis. He hums noncommittally and then ends the call, shoving his phone across the counter before he can feel too guilty.

He can't wait until he gets better. He just wants everything to go back to normal. He wants to go back to the station, wants to get back on the job with Travis, Travis who will annoy him and drive him crazy rather than treat him like a helpless infant. He sighs and cups the mug of tea between his hands, enjoying the warmth that it spreads throughout his chilled limbs. As he heads back to the bedroom, Wes resumes his stirring.

_One, two, three, four. _

**Travis.**

Leave it to Wes to get the Kiss of Death with a simple cold. And leave it to Travis to be annoyed with his partner for being so sick. He feels a lot about Wes' illness actually. Annoyance and boredom because it's been more than a week since they've done _any _kind of work at all, guilt because he's also worried about Wes (seriously, the man overdoes everything, does he have to overdo getting sick as well?), and frustration and impatience because how long is this going to last? He sighs as he puts his phone down and shoves it off to the side. Apparently forever.

"Marks! Was that Mitchell?"

Travis jumps a little at the unexpected appearance of Mike Sutton. Who knew the man could move so quietly? "Yes, sir." he replies as the captain settles himself down in Wes' chair. Travis bites his lip to keep himself from protesting. The chair sags under the captain's weight, accustomed to Wes' thin build. Sutton absentmindedly toys with the pencils that sit just off to the side, exactly the place Wes wants, _needs _them to be.

"Well?"

Jerking his eyes away from the pencils, Travis forces himself to spit out some sort of information that will get the captain out of here as soon as possible. "He's starting to feel better, sir, but he still sounded pretty sick."

Sutton sighs and the chair creaks in protest as he leans further back into it. "Next time you talk to him," he says, giving one of the pencils a push that sends it rolling to the edge of the esk. Travis' hand shoots out and catches it before it can fall to the floor. "If he's not feeling better next time you talk to him, tell him he's under orders from me to see a doctor. I need my best team out there."

Travis is still holding the pencil, rolling it between his thumb and index finger. "Will do, sir." He nods dutifully, making a mental note to give Wes a hard time about this later. Because what is he, the messenger? Why can't the captain call Wes himself? Is this another couples' therapy exercise for Travis? He stifles a groan and nods as the captain finally stands up, pats him on the shoulder, and leaves. As soon as he's out of sight, Travis slumps down in his chair, still staring at Wes' stupid pencil.

He's trying his best, really he is, to stop making fun of Wes' OCD. Just like Wes is trying to overcome his half-crazed impulses to clean and keep things _just so_. Sometimes that isn't a huge problem. He washes his hands three times whenever he uses the bathroom and his obsession with hand sanitizer is a little annoying, but it's stuff that just Wes deals with. But when it affects more than just Wes, like when he has to have an even numbered amount of steps in and out of every room or building, when he shortens his stride to do this and Travis walks smack into him from behind, when he throws a hissy fit because Travis borrowed his stapler _one _time for _five _staples, or when he can't have any of his food mixing on his plate and glares daggers at Travis for smashing french fries on his burger, then it becomes a little much. Then Travis just wants to throw his arms up in the air and demand of Wes "will you just _try _to be normal and less of a control freak?" only to have another argument break out between the two of them.

But yeah, that's part of one of their many compromises. Wes backing down on his need to control every little thing and Travis backing down on the pressure he puts on him. It was Dr. Ryan's idea, but honestly Travis doesn't get it. Wouldn't it work better if Wes had someone constantly reminding him to let the little things go? Why is it such a big deal when Travis hides his hand sanitizer or serves him up a plate of macaroni and cheese, sliding into the broccoli? Dr. Ryan claims that Travis needs to figure out the line between helping and antagonizing Wes first. "Taking control from someone like Wes is similar to removing krill from the food chain. It would upset the entire ecosystem. There needs to be a balance."

Travis mostly accepted this because she essentially compared Wes to a tiny shrimp. Or maybe he was the whale and his control was the shrimp. Whale or shrimp, it was pretty funny. But that didn't make any of it less than a nuisance. "Slow and steady," Dr. Ryan had reminded him, making it his daily mantra. Wes' was the same. Apparently, it would serve as a way to unit them against a common enemy. Why did Wes' issues have to be Travis' though?

He rolls his eyes, trying to shake it off. He leans forward and places the pencil back on Wes' desk, exactly where it should be. He can't help himself because as much as Wes' OCD drives him insane, he knows that a lot of what he does drives Wes insane and so it's the least he can do. Besides, he would never admit it to anyone, especially anyone in therapy and never ever in a million years to Wes, but he's starting to miss his partner. They spend most of their time together fighting over _everything_ but they really do work well together. They balance each other out and form a team that cannot be beaten. Now they're just stagnant, useless and getting out of shape until Wes decides to get over his stupid cold. Travis is going out of his mind sitting around the station like this. He just wants everything to go back to normal. He'll take Wes and his OCD and his bossiness and arrogance and stubbornness.

Travis is okay with that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Wes.**

"Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in!"

"There's the migraine. I thought I finally got rid of it."

"Good to see you too, partner." Travis' grin is a mile long and blindingly white. "You still look like hell though."

"Feel like it too." Wes collapses into his chair, slumping a little. "Though less today than I have been." Automatically, his gaze skims over the surface of his desk, satisfied to see everything in it's proper place except for. . . he reaches out and straightens a pencil a minute degree. There. He looks up just in time to see Travis rolling his eyes, but decides to ignore it. "Do we have anything?"

Travis shakes his head and gestures to the captain's office. The door is closed. "We've been waitin' on you, Wes. They've been bringing stuff in, but not for us." His blue eyes stare intently at Wes, studying him. "Are you really feeling better?" he asks skeptically.

"Looks worse than it is," Wes replies shortly, though he still feels completely awful. He looked at himself in the mirror for the first time in days this morning and even now he can't shake the image from his mind. Pale skin, dark circles carving deep hollows underneath his eyes. Like Johnny Depp in a Tim Burton movie. Scary doesn't quite cut it. "I went to Urgent Care and they gave me an antibiotic. Sinus infection with a touch of the flu, they said."

"What, you couldn't pick one?" Travis' eyebrows shoot up. "Did they say you were okay to be out in public? The way you look right now, I'm afraid you're the first round of the zombie apocalypse."

"Hey, after they said flu, I realized I probably caught it from you." Wes points an accusatory finger at his partner. "You were sick a couple weeks ago, remember? You used my stapler."

Slapping a hand over his chest, Travis gives him a wounded look. "Wes!" he exclaims. "Are you blaming _me_?"

Wes turns away and coughs into the crook of his elbow. "I blame you for everything," he rasps out. He doesn't really mean it of course and when Travis pokes him with a box of tissues he accepts gratefully. "Almost everything," he amends after blowing his nose.

"So glad for that," Travis mutters sarcastically. "Wes, when did you go to Urgent Care, this morning? At least give the antibiotics time to work."

He calls Travis stubborn, but Wes knows he's even more so. "If I have to sit at home for one more day, I might just start a crime ring just for the excuse to get back into the action. At least I know you wouldn't be able to figure it out."

"Jerk." Travis kicks his desk chair a little, sending it sliding backwards a few inches. "I'd be on to you in a second. The crime scene would be spotless. I'd probably catch you cleaning the windows before you leave." He breaks into a another grin and extends his hand towards Wes. "Good to have you back, though. Just don't pass along the plague, okay?"

"I'd rather not shake your hand then," Wes waves him away, allowing a smile to cross his face. He's glad to be back too even if he still feels like crap. "But thanks." He claps his hands together, smirking a little when Travis jumps slightly at the sound. "So, what first?"

"Mitchell! You look like death warmed over, what are you doing here?"

The sound of Captain Sutton's voice grates on Wes, sending little bits of pain dancing from his forehead all the way down his spine. He grimaces, reaching up to try and rub the headache away before it escalates into _another _migraine. "I'm on antibiotics and cleared to work, sir."

Sutton's expression doesn't change. "Who cleared you?" he asks suspiciously.

"Um." Wes stiffens. He doesn't exactly have the best excuse. "Urgent Care." Holding up a hand to stop the captain from protesting, he tries to explain himself. "It's a case of the flu and that's already gone around the office. I haven't had it until now so," he shrugs. "I guess it's my turn."

"Uh-huh. And exactly how long have you been on these antibiotics?" Sutton doesn't look any more convinced, but Wes can hardly blame him.

"Since this morning," he admits. "Listen. I'll do desk work. Run errands for you. Clean my desk. Clean Travis' desk. Anything to keep me out of my apartment. I'm going stir crazy in there lately." He realizes that he sounds pretty pathetic, but he can only care so much. He's that desperate.

"Go for it," Travis gestures at the mess before him and nods at the captain. "Seems like a good idea to me. I even have hand sanitizer so I can touch everything after he does."

Wes makes a grab for the little white bottle. "Travis! Give that back!" He starts coughing and turns away from both Travis and Sutton as he tries to recover. "Sorry," he chokes out. This is not helping his case in the least.

Travis and the captain have both moved back considerably to avoid the spray of germs. Travis has this obnoxious look of pity and concern on his face, while the captain just looks irritated and frustrated. "Mitchell," he sounds like he has no idea to be here right now. "Go home."

"Nooo," and now Wes knows that he's whining. "I'm fine."

Looking slightly guilty now, Travis slides the hand sanitizer back to Wes. "Let him stay, Captain." he petitions on Wes' behalf. "His apartment probably can't take anymore cleaning."

Wes lets that go. The captain already hates their arguing and he's trying to get on the older man's good side right now. To Travis' credit, he is giving their boss puppy eyes. He's trying too.

"Figures you two gang up on me now," Sutton grumbles. At least he's glaring at both of them now.

Of course Travis has mastered the look of innocence, leaving Wes to look like the only guilty one. "Aw, c'mon, Cap. Give the poor kid a break." He reaches over and pats Wes on the back. Too hard. Wes bites back another coughing fit.

"Fine," Sutton growls. "Desk duty. There are some cases that need to be filed. I'm sure the two of you can get a lot of it done." Snapping his fingers at Travis, he points to the cabinets behind them. "You can get them. Let this sick puppy stay in his chair. Tie him down if you have to. I don't want him going anywhere if it's not home." He points at Wes now. "Home is where you should be, but it'll be more trouble to get you there then to just let you stay."

Victory shouldn't be this exhausting, especially if it's just done sitting down like this. Wes sighs and nods gratefully to the captain as he walks away. He ignores the glare Travis throws over his shoulder. He's not thrilled about being designated to work in the office all day either, but anything, _absolutely anything _is better than being home. "Will do, sir." he calls after Sutton's retreating back.

"You owe me big time," Travis mutters as he stomps back to their desks and drops a pile of papers in front of Wes. He takes a smaller one for himself and sits down, lifting his feet to place on the desk. "You read faster," he points out at the incredulous look Wes gives him.

"Just put your feet on the floor where they belong," Wes says under his breath and then slowly reaches for the pile. Now that he thinks about it, staying in bed might have been a better idea after all. He's really not looking forward to reading about all the action his fellow cops have gotten during his time out. He knows this is why Travis is ticked at him too. He can't really blame him. Half of this stuff should have been theirs in the first place.

"Please get better," Travis says, _begs_ him. "For my sanity."

"Trust me, I'm trying." Wes sneezes. "For both of our sakes."

**Travis.**

It would be funny if it wasn't so pathetic.

Wes is sound asleep at his desk and snoring. Okay, maybe he's only snoring because he can't exactly breathe properly. To his credit, he got more than halfway through his pile of papers before he nodded off, letting the current stack in his hands slide to the floor. Almost immediately, he started snoring which attracted stares from all over the office. Travis just shrugged at them because he didn't know what to think.

He still doesn't. He's never seen Wes this out of it before. They've known each other for seven, almost eight, years now. Travis can count on one hand the times he has seen Wes actually sick before which is impressive except for the fact that they've all been really ridiculously long drawn-out experiences. He knows colds linger but normal people can shake them off in less than a week. Wes on the other hand. . .

And he's never been this bad before. Travis knows it's just his imagination, but he can practically feel the heat radiating off the other man from where he's sitting. He looks like a ghost and he clearly hasn't had much of an appetite because he looks even thinner than usual. It's all a little extreme even for Wes. Part of Travis is a little appalled that the Urgent Care people were so quick to dismiss his illness as the flu and a sinus infection. He's not sure what both would look like on a normal person, but he's certain that a). they would have gone to Urgent Care and then an actual doctor days ago, and b). they would be home. Wes should be home.

A glance over his shoulder lets him know that the captain is still in his office, unaware that one of his best officers is literally asleep on the job. Of course in falling asleep, Wes has left Travis to figure out a way to cover up for him. He has a few options. He can wake Wes up and get him back to work. He can wake Wes up and order/take him home. He can let him sleep and let Sutton catch him. Obviously, Travis wants to pick the one that will cause him the less amount of trouble in the long run, but it's not looking good. Either option leaves a ticked off captain, a humiliated and annoyed Wes, and an innocent Travis to take all the blame.

He flicks a wadded up piece of paper across his desk, silently congratulating himself when he nails Wes in the forehead. "Wes!" he hisses. "Wake up, dude!"

Wes starts, snorting as he sits up, hands batting at the air. "Wassa matter?" he asks, blinking heavily at the bright light overhead. "What? Travis?"

"Wes, you're practically delirious," Travis says in disapproval. "Just go home, man."

"Home?" Wes looks like he's never heard the word before. "Why? I'm fine."

Travis just snorts and shakes his head. "Fine, but fall asleep again and I'm throwing you over my shoulder and taking you home myself." He eyes Wes up and down. "You're tall but you're skinny, especially since you've been sick. Plus, you look like a breeze would knock you over. I doubt you'd put up much of a fight."

Wes just glares at him and reaches for his papers again. "I'll go home early," he says. "Deal?"

"Deal." Travis is surprised. He checks his watch. "Two at the latest."

"Three."

There it is. The stubborness. Travis somehow manages to resist the urge to roll his eyes. "Whatever," he mutters. "It's your funeral."

Wes doesn't take his eyes off of the papers he's reading. "Just kick my chair if you see me nodding off again." he mutters.

"How long it is supposed to take for your antibiotics to kick in?" Travis asks. He needs to know that an end is in sight otherwise _he _might to stay home sick. He might not have a choice if Wes is going to insist on breathing his germs all over the place. Sinus infections aren't contagious, but the flu sure is. Even if he's already had it, Travis feels like it's pretty impossible for him to avoid getting sick all over again.

Wes doubles over with a coughing fit at that moment as if to prove a point. Travis cringes and slides his chair backwards, away from his partner. "Gross," he mutters, wrinkling his nose. "Maybe you should go home now. Or go to a doctor. You have the Black Plague, Wes."

"Thought I was starting the zombie apocalypse?" Wes chokes out.

"Save your breath," Travis replies. "Don't waste it on trying to be funny." He frowns when Wes only continues to cough. "Need a drink? Cough drop?"

Wes can't answer this time, coughing so hard that he can't even breathe. Travis finds himself getting alarmed when he sees a bluish tinge start to appear around his partners' lips and he stands up, hovering uncertainly over him. "Wes." he says quietly even though there's no way he can hear him. "Hey, Wes." He pats him on the back gently at first and then thumps him hard. "You okay?"

Wes tries to wave him away, but it only makes him cough harder. He reaches out and manages to grab the handkerchief on his desk. Leaning over, he hacks into the cloth, probably spitting up the gobs of mucus that's been sitting in his throat and making him snore so much. Hopefully it's helping, but Travis is ready to call for an ambulance. He knows how to administer the Heimlich but Wes isn't exactly choking on anything. He just can't catch his breath. At all. Travis' concern is increasing by the moment, especially now that they've attracted quite a few stares at this point. "Wes!"

Finally, Wes sucks in a half a breath. He sounds like he's wheezing now, but it's an improvement at least. The coughing begins to ease and his breathing increases even more. The hand that was gripping the armrest of his chair relaxes its white knuckled grip and whatever color was in his face to begin with starts to return. He removes the handkerchief from his mouth.

"Wes." Travis sounds a little breathless himself now. "You with me?" He realizes now that his hand is on Wes' shoulder and he can feel a rise and fall that's a little weak, but steady. "Let me get you a drink, okay?" Wes, still looking at the stupid handkerchief, doesn't answer him and though he was on the way to the water cooler, Travis pauses. "Wes?" At last Wes looks up at him and Travis feels the breath leave him for real this time.

Wes' face is as pale as a sheet and his eyes are bloodshot from his coughing fit. His chest is still heaving as though he's just run a marathon but none of that is what scares Travis. What scares him is the blood that stands out in such contrast against the otherwise milky white of the cloth in his shaking hands.


End file.
